Chapter 2
Charles Taylor went to his father’s office at the bank the day after the funeral.
The interment had been brief and grim. The reception at his father’s house had been exhausting.
Charles had spent the night there, since he wanted to be in the city early the next day.
Faye had gone back to Atherton with Liam.
Charles had been deep in conversation with a member of the board and didn’t see them leave.
They knew better than to bother him when he was talking business.
Charlie had a single-track mode of operation, so they left.
Liam was eager to leave and meet up with friends.
Charles was surprised by how well he slept in his father’s house.
He didn’t feel his presence or sense any message from him.
They had run out of things to say to each other years before and Charles had become an expert at deflecting his father’s never-wavering criticism of his life choices and decisions.
It had fallen on deaf ears for years. Patrick Taylor wasn’t a kind man.
Charlie hoped that he was himself, and tried to be.
At worst, he was honest to the point of bluntness sometimes, in a casual, well-meaning way, which occasionally wounded its object more than he intended.
He apologized when he was wrong or hurt someone’s feelings.
Charlie had a laser-beam, astute, all-seeing point of view.
He could be cutting when he was angry. He had a temper, which didn’t surface often and was quick to cool when it did.
He hated laziness and dishonesty, and was merciless with either.
He was an honest man, and expected the same from others.
His words were sharp and intended to hurt if he felt betrayed, cheated, or disrespected.
He was the commander of whatever ship he was on, and didn’t tolerate mutiny, from inferiors or superiors alike.
Charlie liked to be in control and get his own way, but he was honest and fair, and a man of integrity.
Liam never challenged his father’s authority.
He just did what he wanted, and counted on no one noticing, which was usually the case, since his parents were busy.
He was a good kid. He never got in trouble in school, and got fabulous grades.
He was as smart as his parents and sensible most of the time, with the occasional youthful poor judgment and foolishness, but not to excess.
His parents were lucky. With very little supervision, Liam rarely caused a problem.
As Charlie walked around his father’s home, he felt free. No one was going to criticize him, challenge him, put him down. He could breathe. The quarrelsome old man who had hounded him all his life was gone. Finally. Charlie wouldn’t miss him.
Charlie informed the employees that he would be putting the house on the market soon and wanted any necessary small repairs taken care of immediately.
They knew it was coming, and that Charlie and his family wouldn’t move to the city.
Their house in Atherton was spectacular, and his father’s was somewhat gloomy with dark wood paneling everywhere, and heavy drapes that kept out the sun and light.
It was a beautiful home, but not for a young family.
It looked like an English men’s club, with a library filled with leather-bound books and first editions Patrick had collected.
Charlie stood at the window for a minute, looking out at the view of the bay, and felt like his father as he stood there.
It made him uncomfortable. He was the opposite of his father, intentionally.
He left for the bank after a cup of coffee in the kitchen. They had used the formal dining room for the reception the night before, its vitrines filled with antique silver.
The board members were waiting for Charlie in the boardroom at the bank and gave him a warm welcome.
They stood up when he came into the room, to show respect, and he waved them to their seats, and took his own at the head of the table.
A secretary he didn’t know set down a cup of coffee for him.
All of the board members had been at the funeral, the male members as pallbearers.
Charlie tried not to think of it. There was no one Charlie’s age on the board.
They were all north of sixty, and most of them in their seventies, although capable, experienced, and alert.
This was an informal gathering to welcome him.
One of the two women on the board, Mrs. Baker, the elderly widow, pointed to the large portraits of Charlie’s father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, and smiled at him.
“We want one of you up there now,” she said in a grandmotherly tone. “You have to sit for a portrait,” she told him, and Charlie shook his head.
“I hate portraits,” he said firmly. There was another one of Patrick at the house, in the library. Charlie had always hated it. His father looked pompous. “I don’t sit anywhere long enough to be painted. I’ll give you a photograph, you can put it on a table somewhere,” he said, “or in a drawer.”
“No,” she insisted. “You need to pick an artist, and get a portrait done. You’re the chairman of the board now.
We’ll give you till Christmas to do it.” She spoke to him as though he were a child.
Charlie ignored her and they chatted about a few minor items of business.
They wanted to have the lobby of the bank painted over the summer.
It was a big job and it would be expensive.
Charlie approved it, and half an hour later, he thanked them and left.
Mrs. Baker reminded him about the portrait as he was leaving.
He had no intention of sitting for a portrait.
The whole idea sounded absurd and arrogant to him.
They had set the date for the next meeting.
He drove to his office in Palo Alto then.
It was the opposite of his father’s house and the offices at the bank.
Everything in Charles’s offices was white or beige, open and airy with light everywhere, and spectacular contemporary art.
The two offices were as different as Charles and his father.
Patrick had been the staunch defender of ancient traditions.
Charlie had been breaking the sound barrier for his entire career.
He signed some papers, gathered up some materials for his trip, and then went home to his beautiful, splendidly decorated home in Atherton.
Faye was at her office. He knew she was planning to work late, as she always did, and he wouldn’t see her before he left.
He hadn’t said goodbye to her the night before when she left the reception.
It wasn’t unusual for them in their disconnected life.
He would see her in three weeks, and if some major problem came up while he was traveling, she’d call him on his cell.
She never called him just to chat, nor did he call her.
Charlie crossed Liam in the hall at the house and they chatted for a minute. Liam was leaving the next day, excited to be going to Europe.
“Do you have enough money, euros, your credit card?” Charlie asked him, and Liam smiled. He’d been to Europe alone before.
“Mom’s secretary got me everything I need,” Liam said.
“Have a good trip,” Charlie said and hugged him, and went to pack.
At five o’clock that afternoon, Charlie left for the airport.
Liam had gone out by then. The house was silent when he locked the door and set the alarm.
It was an odd feeling knowing how separate their lives were, but it had been that way for a long time.
He wouldn’t see Liam until he got back from Europe in August. He didn’t even know his itinerary, but he knew that Faye would, or more precisely her secretary, Zina, who knew more about Liam’s whereabouts at all times than either of his parents.
He would see Faye when he got back in three weeks.
Charlie didn’t call her to say goodbye. She’d be in a meeting anyway, or on a conference call.
Charlie made it to the airport in half an hour, at full speed in his Aston Martin. He pulled into the part of the airport that was set aside for private planes.
The crew were waiting for him to come onboard, and they took off moments later, after they did their final checks.
Charlie always cut it close, and the flight attendant brought him a drink once they were in the air.
He chatted with her for a few minutes, and relaxed.
It had been an easy day. He’d had the trip planned for a while, to check on the restaurants he wanted to buy.
As part of the deal he was getting six that he didn’t want, but there were twenty that he did.
He had already negotiated the price. He wanted to see the restaurants in person before he signed the contract.
Conveniently, his father’s death and funeral hadn’t derailed the trip.
He worked for a while on the plane, had a meal, slept, and went over the papers in his briefcase when he woke up, to make sure he had all the details fresh in his mind for the meeting the next day.
The private plane made Charlie’s travel easier and more convenient.
His father had been critical of that too, saying it was a frivolous expense and a luxury he didn’t need, that it just made him look like a spoiled rich boy, and that the people Charlie did business with would disapprove.
It was pointless to explain to Patrick that most of the people Charlie did business with had planes too.
Charlie spent most of his time on the road, checking out restaurants and construction sites, meeting people to close deals all across the country.
He worked at a brisk pace in a fast-moving world.
He didn’t have time to waste, and neither did his associates, or the people Charlie structured deals with.